


my past (and how i used to live it)

by speedboat



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, Enemies to Lovers, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Tenderness, hypersexuality as a coping mechanism, lovers to people who care about each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2020-01-12 13:04:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18447152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/speedboat/pseuds/speedboat
Summary: It’s become a bad habit this summer, Billy crawling to Harrington with his tail between his legs. It’s weak. It’s sad.It’s fucking queer, is what it is, but it’s late and humid in a way California never was, and he’s tired, enough to admit that he, Billy Hargrove, is a little queer. And, as gross as it feels, a little needy.Billy imagines Harrington on the lawn chairs by the pool, Harrington eating a popsicle leaning on his kitchen counter. Harrington staring out the front window and wondering if Billy will show up.Not that that’s what he’s doing, but.It’d be nice if he did, is all.Billy and Steve teeter at the edge of people who fuck and...something?





	my past (and how i used to live it)

**Author's Note:**

> billy hargrove deserves TENDERNESS that's how i feel

It’s become a bad habit this summer, Billy crawling to Harrington with his tail between his legs. It’s weak. It’s sad.

It’s fucking queer, is what it is, but it’s late and humid in a way California never was, and he’s tired, enough to admit that he, Billy Hargrove, is a little queer. And, as gross as it feels, a little needy. He’s gotten into this routine, after fights with Neil. He waits until Neil is asleep, dresses his wounds if he needs to, and walks the mile to Harrington’s house. Neil would hear the Camaro.

Besides, it cools him off. The night air is still humid and sticky, but it feels pleasant on his face, especially when it’s smarting like tonight.

Tonight, Billy has a bruise on his hips from Neil shoving him into the stove, a rising welt on his cheek. Neil had held his face in his hand like Billy was a naughty dog and then he’d shoved it away. Said the same bullshit as always about respect and honor and the way Billy shamed him.

Billy imagines Harrington on the lawn chairs by the pool, Harrington eating a popsicle leaning on his kitchen counter. Harrington staring out the front window and wondering if Billy will show up. Not that that’s what he’s doing, but.

It’d be nice if he did, is all.

 

“Hey,” says Harrington. He’s already leaning on the door frame as Billy walks up the drive. Sometimes, it feels like Harrington hears him coming, like he’s constantly listening for Billy.

His brow is knit together, and he’s giving Billy the up-and-down. His gaze rests on the welt Billy can feel rising on his left cheekbone. It’s a small one. It’s no biggie. Normally the bruises aren’t on his face, is all, and he can feel in the air that that’s a line for Harrington, that Billy is veering too close to pathetic.

“Hey, princess,” says Billy. He bounces on the balls of his feet. “Can I come in?”

“‘Course,” says Harrington, clearing his throat. He’s long since given up on princess. “Sorry.”

Harrington looks tired, moving across the living room to the low lights that are always on in the Harrington house. His face looks a little sunken.

Billy wants him anyways.

Billy takes off his coat and throws it on the Harringtons’ nice leather sofa. He does that a lot, but Harrington looks at him differently this time. It’s with concern, and he feels a buzz in his chest. He’s not a fucking china doll.

He strides across the living room, reaching Harrington and tilting to the left. They’d both gone different ways, the first time they did this. Bumped noses, hard, leaning against the Camaro at the quarry, damp April air all around them.

(He’s started to learn Harrington. Find the places that make his throat buzz with a groan, figure out the rhythms that work for them. There was the time Billy had pushed his tongue into Harrington’s mouth mid-handie and Harrington had jerked his head back, said, “no, thanks,” and gone back to kissing him, pulling him off. Billy had been mortified, blaming the flush of his cheeks on his impending orgasm, but Harrington had just finished him off with a grin, continued like nothing.)

He’s got a good thing going, Billy reflects as he kisses down Harrington’s neck to the pulse point that he likes to nip at, ‘cause it makes him jump. They’ve got a good thing going. He sucks at it enough to leave a faint pink mark (Harrington doesn’t bruise, no matter how hard Billy tries), then back up, frantic, to his lips.

“Pants?” Billy breathes into Harrington’s mouth. He starts to fumble at Harrington’s fly, not able to quite get the angle right.

Harrington pulls back.

“Billy, do you want to--”

And Billy’s not a fucking moron, okay? He can recognize that he’s acting weird. Going too fast, in such a hurry to prove that he’s fine that he doesn’t seem fine.

“What, princess?” he says. “You don’t want it?”

“I do, it just--”

Billy pulls at the button of Harrington’s jeans again, feeling more and more frantic.

Harrington puts a hand over Billy’s and squeezes. Gentle. Firm.

“Hold off a second,” he says, and Billy feels a wave of panic rise in himself. God, is he pathetic. He yanks his hand out of Harrington’s, out of Harrington’s space. Harrington tracks the movement before moving his eyes up to Billy’s face, searching.

“What’s up with you?” Harrington says, his fucking huge brown eyes moving over Billy’s face, his body. “You’re acting weird.”

Billy doesn’t say anything. He tries to school his face into an expression that isn’t fear.

“Are you, like. Okay?”

And, like, what would Harrington do if Billy said no? _Not really,_ he imagines saying to Harrington. _My dad takes out all his shit on me, my job sucks ass and you’re, like, the only person I’m even a little bit myself around and we don’t even like each other._

“Yeah,” Billy says. “”S’not like you care anyways, pretty boy.”

Harrington frowns, and Billy feels a rush of exasperation. He just wants to get the fuck out of his body for a few minutes.  

“Are we doing this or what?” Billy asks, gesturing between them. “Because I can go, if we’re not going to…”

“Don’t go,” Harrington says, too quick, and it’s Billy’s turn to give a look. Even if it’s nice to feel like somehow, in some way, Harrington wants him there. “I mean...we can? But we don’t...have to?”

“Let’s,” Billy says, anxious to get back to their script, and he leans in to give a nip at Harrington’s lips.

It’s one of the things he likes most about this. Billy has long days of living with Neil, whose energy is unmappable, even after years of trying and trying to memorize the patterns that will set him off. Living on Cherry Drive, in a house so hot during the summer it’s stifling. And Billy has somehow stumbled, through pure, dumb luck, into a situation where he gets to be here. With Steve fucking Harrington, in his air-conditioned living room, doing the same fucking thing they always do.

Billy goes back to fumbling at Harrington’s jeans, fumbling at his own, pulling off shirts, his back always facing away from Harrington so he can’t see the bruise that’s darkened there. They break to run up the stairs, only in underwear, to Harrington’s (hideous, plaid) room, where he crashes into Billy’s chest, pushes him back onto the (hideous, plaid) bed, and from there, Billy knows the rest, relishing the feeling of Harrington’s weight on top of him, pressing down his body, fingers searching...

Harrington has just started to reach into Billy’s underwear when something in Billy seizes up, and he just--

He can’t breathe.

He can’t fucking take a breath in, and Harrington feels so heavy on top of him and it reminds him of straddling him, throwing blow after blow and is that how it felt, did Harrington feel how Billy feels around Neil, how could anyone ever l--

“Hey,” Harrington says, and the sound makes Billy recoil, want to curl in on himself. He still can’t fucking _breathe_ and--

“Hey,” Harrington says again, and he pulls himself off of Billy, and Billy gasps for breath. “Jesus Christ, Billy, are you okay?”

Billy can’t really do anything but breathe, breathe and--after the shame of this starts to set in--curl away from Harrington on the bed. He hears Harrington take a harsh breath in and realizes, too late, that he’s probably seen the nasty bruise on his back. Christ, but Billy is a pathetic person.

“Hey,” Harrington says a third time, after Billy’s breath has slowed a little. He places a tentative hand on Billy’s shoulder, reaching out for him. “I’m so sorry, I should have--I shouldn’t have--”

Billy just stares at the ugly wallpaper, willing his breath to even out.

“I’m sorry,” Harrington repeats. “Can I get you, like, uh. A glass of water? Or--”

“Yeah,” Billy says, mostly because he wants to be alone, if just for a minute.

Harrington stands up, and Billy hears his footsteps echo down the stairs,the clink of him rummaging through the cupboards, the sound of water running, and then he’s back, holding out a mug of lukewarm water.

Billy sits up, finds himself sorer than before. That figures.

He takes the mug of water and takes a swig. The mug says “World’s Greatest Dad,” and Billy feels a pang at that that he swallows down with another drink.

“Are you, like. Good?” Harrington asks.

“Yeah,” Billy says. He can feel his cheeks heating up. “I dunno. Sorry about that, I guess. It’s never happened to me before.”

“That’s okay,” says Harrington, sounding nervous. “Did you, like, come here from a fight?”

“In a way,” Billy says wryly. He feels Harrington’s anxiety mounting and mounting, rising higher and higher as he stands in front of Billy, his erection flagging. Billy is surprised to look down and find himself soft. This seems like the moment Harrington politely asks him to leave, and he doesn’t really fault him that. Harrington looks like he keeps wanting to say something, and after a minute, Billy feels himself give into it.

“Just say it, Harrington,” he says.

“Do you…” Harrington looks away. “Do you want to have some mac and cheese with me?”

Billy can honestly say he wasn’t expecting that.

“You don’t have to do this, man,” Billy says. “This got weird, I get it, you don’t have to pity me.”

“No, really,” Harrington says. “‘Cause one box is too much for me to eat on my own, but with you here, it’s kind of…” he trails off, cuffing a hand behind his neck, cheeks reddening. “It’s kind of perfect.”

“Oh,” says Billy, feeling himself go a little pink, too. “I guess.”

 

They’re eating mac and cheese in their underwear at Harrington’s kitchen table, and Harrington looks like he wants to say something again. Billy feels an undercurrent of both exasperation and a hidden, warm spark of affection for him.

“Spit it out, Harrington,” he says.

“Steve,” Harrington says. “Will you just...will you call me Steve? I feel like it’s weird, after--”

_After I jumped your bones and then freaked out on you?_ Billy wants to say. He takes a measured bite of macaroni instead, and waits to hear Harrington out.

“Just,” Harrington bites out. “All of my friends call me Steve. And you’re…”

Billy thinks of all the corny reasons Harrington is going to say what he’s about to say. The pity in his eyes as he looked at Billy’s bruise, Billy’s pathetic freak-out, Billy’s cheap clothes, Billy’s everything he is, according to Neil and the whole world, honestly. Billy kissing first that damp night in April like some _queer_.

“You’re my friend,” Steve says, and Billy can’t help it, he looks up from his bowl and into Steve’s big, Bambi eyes and feels a stupid flutter in his heart like probably every girl at Hawkins High.

**Author's Note:**

> title from nicotine's "running"


End file.
